Shaking so that he could scarcely walk, St. John went below and into the library, where hung a rifle over the chimney piece and also a brace of swords. He got down the rifle and loaded it. Then he strapped the larger of the swords around his waist.
"Now you look quite like a soldier," said his mother encouragingly. "I hope you can shoot straight."
"I—I don't want to kill—kill anybody," he answered. "If I do, the Yankees will be very—very vindictive."
"But you must protect our home!" insisted Mrs. Mary Ruthven. "Come, brace up!"
Still trembling, and with a face as white as chalk, St. John walked to the veranda of the homestead. He gazed down the road and saw a body of soldiers approaching, in a cloud of dust and smoke. Then a cannon boomed out, and a ball hit the corner of the house, sending a shower of splinters in all directions.
"They have struck the house!" shrieked Mrs. Ruthven. "We shall all be murdered!"
"Spare us! spare us!" gasped St. John, as a company of soldiers came up to the mansion on the double-quick. "We have harmed nobody! Spare us!"
"You big calf!" cried one of the soldiers. "We aint going to hurt you. Git up from yer knees!" For St. John had indeed fallen upon his knees in his abject terror.
"Who—who are you?"
"We are Confederates—if you'll only open yer eyes to see. Git up!" And in disgust the Southern soldier pricked St. John's shoulder with his bayonet. The spendthrift let out a yell of fear, rolled over, and dashed into the house, leaving his gun behind him.